"My friend," said Doctor Louis, "do not forget that I am a doctor. Either then, or now, or at some time within the next twelve months, you would have succumbed to the strain which you have lately been putting upon yourself. The fever was lying dormant in your veins, and needed but a chance to assert itself. Whether you are conscious of it or not, there is no doubt that there have been severe demands upon your nervous system. To speak plainly, you have over-taxed yourself, and have treated Nature unfairly. She is long-suffering, but, push her too far, she will turn upon you and exact the penalty. Too late then to repent; the mischief is done, and all that we can do thereafter is to patch up. Have you met with any misfortune lately--have you lost any one who was dear to you?"
"Within a short time," I said, "I have lost both my parents."
"That is sad; but you have brothers, sisters?"
"Not one; nor, so far as I am aware, a relative the wide world over. I am alone."
"I regret to hear it, and sincerely sympathise with you; but you are young, and have all your life before you. There are, however, persons with whom you wish to communicate, friends who will be anxious at your long silence. Now that you are conscious and sensible you will have letters to write. Do not flatter yourself that you are strong enough to write them. It will be another fortnight, at least, before you will be fit even for that slight exertion."
"I have no letters to write," I said, "and none to receive. I am without a friend."
I saw him look in pity at me, and he seemed to be surprised and disturbed.
"I am a new experience to you," I observed.
"I admit it, yes," he said thoughtfully, "but we have talked enough. Sleep, and rest."
As he uttered these words he passed his right hand with a soothing motion across my brows. I was disposed for sleep, and it came to me.